penny candy ~

What comes to mind when you hear the words, "Sandusky, OH"?  I think of my childhood. Of movie theater popcorn, with real butter. Of corn dogs, the advent of Buffalo wings, Icees, Cedar Point Amusement Park, Orange Julius, Mister Misty's at Dairy Queen, push up popsicles and jacks, and skinned knees and sandboxes, a town small enough that all your friends lived just one street over, of dark green cars and orange shag carpet and plaid #everything. Of the original afros, and disco music, and roller skates and bell  bottoms, bubble gum and pig tails with afro puffs and cheese doodles, penny candy and now-and-laters, Rolos and donuts and cotton candy, ice cold Kool-Aid and stripes, The Jackson 5 and walks to the corner store to get a bag of chips and an Italian ice. Brick homes and tall trees and honeysuckle, racing on foot, riding bikes and big wheels, Honey Combs cereal, Apple Jacks and apple jack caps.  Red popsicle stains on little faces and tears when I got knocked off my bike. Of racism and the Klan riding past my house, slowing down so we could see their hoods and capes, of the fear and the anger that they almost hit my daddy with their car. Of being afraid and angry at the same time, but not really knowing why.

Of loving the world while hating the realities that unfolded with each year of maturity...wishing I could undo the pain, of my friend's mom dying, of discovering that I was different from my schoolmates who had straight blonde hair, and some of them liked me just the same, even though my skin was a different color, but some of them were afraid to drink from the water fountain after me, and how some asked what it felt like to be a "blackey," and why does my hair feel like that, and of asking do black people believe in Jesus, and do we pray to him at night like they do?  Of being the only brown face in a sea full of white, the brown face with brown eyes, orange corduroys and Buster Brown shoes.  Of knowing that I was not allowed to go to school in "raggedy" clothes; the feeling of being neat and clean and dressed your best, with a nervous tummy still full of the Cream of Wheat your mommy made you eat so you wouldn't be hungry. Of having a brother to look up to, to ask questions that you didn't quite want to ask your parents, of him knowing exactly what you meant, because he'd had the same question, of asking him how he feels being the only brown face in a sea full of not browns.  Of having plenty of friends who weren't brown like me, and didn't understand my brown-ness; some were cruel, some were curious, but none were brown.

Of hailing from Pennsylvania, where hayrides, fall festivals, firewood, the smell of cinnamon and candy corn, apple cider, caramel apples,  pumpkins and squash.... the stone steps that led from the porch outside the kitchen to the garden below....the plush green warmth of 228 East Hamilton Avenue, where there were rooms of every single color....blue, orange, green....steps in between....hard wood floors and wooden steps that were polished so clean, you'd slip on them in your sock feet. of being the child of a pastor who started an outreach for the students who were brown in that college town...not only for those who were brown, but a haven for those who sought to understand God...and themselves...to grasp what it meant to be young, brown and striving for higher education, reaching for a greater component, a nugget of knowledge to empower oneself among those who only saw the color of your brown skin...to be surrounded by smart, fresh faces of brown descent, who without anger or hatred, pressed forward with unspoken pride in an identity that was threatened every day they lived....to see them advance to levels in government and academia, find their firm footing in arenas where they were not welcomed...without combativeness, knowing they were well equipped and had every right to be there.  To watch your father, a brown preacher, teach these young faces to embrace their colors (all of them) and offer the world their genuine souls and righteous efforts.  To know that these were the beginnings of better days for the brown people.....

....to fast forward 30 years, to know that the brown of your soul has never left you, nor has it robbed you of an appreciation of souls of all colors...to know that this is how you had to find your footing as a brown around many other types of souls...the wave of experiences, being followed around a department store for an hour, while you tried to browse the store's merchandise, and when you needed help with something you found, the store clerks acted as if they didn't see you...to being passed over for promotions that were given to less-qualified, non-brown counterparts, and given other reasons as to why this occurred....to being faced with the controversy wherein so many want to deny the differences for their own comfort.  You are now an adult, comfortable in your own soul, fully knowledgeable of the life of melanin...deeply longing for honesty...realness...acceptance of the evil that still lurks, and seeking valiant, concerted efforts to put these demons to rest.   Crying tears for the lives that have been lost, seeds that have been exterminated...seeds that mirror you, your family, your friends...wanting an appreciation and value in that which is you, understanding that the honest embrace is more trustworthy than a blind eye. Decades past skinned knees, bullies and bike rides, there is still a road to travel. My brown soul is willing, my heart is able, I have plenty of love and acceptance, a dose of realism and optimism…and even a little penny candy for the ride.